


Killing the Messenger

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: After Remember and before Hero, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle is under attack through his visions</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing the Messenger

There was nothing happening on this corner. Nothing had happened and, I was now certain, nothing was going to happen. It was just a liquor store doing a little evening business on a corner where a residential street met a main street. Doyle had seen it as clear as anything in his vision. He had been given the two street names and the name of the store right before he lost consciousness. I was sitting here staring at it with nothing to do and Doyle could be dead.

It was the third time in two days that Doyle had received a false vision. The first time was yesterday morning when, in the usual way of things, he had been overtaken by a sudden, searing headache and been shown the location of a downtown office block. Normally he got more detail than that, a name or a taste of the danger that would meet us, but we headed there anyway. We spent the best part of the day talking to people and keeping watch before giving up and going back to the office worried we had missed something. Doyle, going over and over the vision for some small detail that he might have failed to see the significance of.

The second time was a few hours later in the early evening. Doyle had been wandering across the office with a coffee. “Jesus H, not again,” he had said, a familiar tension in his voice.

The coffee cup clattered to the floor and he doubled up with a fist against his forehead. With Cordelia on one side and me on the other, we got him on to the couch. And when the waves of pain subsided he said he had received a vision of a beach. But that was it, there was no detail to show us which beach to go to and no indication of what or where the problem might be. Hopeless. Doyle and I drove miles along the coast that night until just before sunrise but we didn’t come up with anything. 

I couldn’t understand what was happening but convinced myself the PTB would sort out whatever was wrong. Just as if Doyle was a TV needing retuning. It was stupid and complacent of me.

But we had got through the whole of today without any problems, without anything happening at all in fact. When it got to around sunset Cordelia had said something really cutting about nothing coming in on ‘radio loser’ and it seemed like a good moment to quit for the day. That was when it happened.

This time he was knocked clear off his feet. I heard a curse and turned to see him down on his knees, the colour drained out of him and he held his head with both hands. I sank down with him holding him by the shoulders as he fought against the pain of the attack. Then he gave me the address of the liquor store before his eyes closed and he passed out. 

His body was still and lifeless as I picked him up and laid him down on the couch and for a moment, before I sensed the quickened pulse of his blood, I thought he was dead. Judging by the small, horrified cry that escaped her, Cordelia did too, but then we saw him flinch as he fought against unconsciousness. 

“You go,” she said, because she knew I had to. No matter how pointless I now believed it was going to be. “I’m calling 911, I’ll phone you.”

And that was three long hours ago. Hours that I had spent trying to figure out what was going on, what might be doing this, trying to work out if there was any significance to the three locations, any connection between them. Anything.

Finally my cell phone rang. It was Cordelia from the hospital. She sounded tired and angry.

“Angel. Did you find anything?” She asked.

“Nothing. How’s Doyle?”

“He came round after you left, with one hell of a headache. They did all kinds of tests and gave him some stupid painkillers. They say it’s a migraine. As if. ” Cordelia was evidently not impressed by the diagnosis but I was not surprised. I didn’t think this was the type of condition that would show up on a scan. “Angel, can you come and pick us up? They say he can go home.”

When I reached the hospital I found Cordelia and Doyle waiting in the Emergency Room. Cordelia looked out for me in the crowded reception area leaning against the white-painted wall absently gathering and separating the ends of her long dark hair. Doyle was sitting on the floor beside her, his knees drawn up, his head in his hands. I crouched down in front of him and when I said his name he looked up.

Sometimes I believe that Doyle’s demon side shows through in his eyes. I’ve never been able to figure out what colour they are, shimmering like the sea through all the shades of blue and green and icy grey. When he met my gaze and half-smiled I was captured just for a moment in trying to read their expression, suggested but submerged at impossible depths.

“How’s your head?” I said finally.

“Fine once I get the axe-blade out of it.” It had to hurt a lot for Doyle to make that kind of admission. “So, another false alarm was it?” 

“Forget about it, we’ll figure it out. Let’s go.” And I helped him to stand with a hand at his arm.

“So why are they doing this?” Cordelia demanded as we drove home.

“Who?”

“The PTB.”

“Them? I hadn’t figured it was them.”

“Then they should be stopping it.” It was something to think about.

I dropped Cordelia off first and then parked in the lot below Doyle’s apartment.

“I’m fine Angel, you go home,” he said but he was unsteady as we took the stairs and when we reached his one room place he immediately lay down on the bed stopping only to take off his shoes and jacket. I went to get him a glass of water but by the time I got back he had slipped into a deep sleep.

I got a chair and placed it by his bed. I had decided that I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight tonight. The attacks (for that’s what I believed them to be) were becoming frequent and more violent and whilst there wasn’t much I could do against them at least he wouldn’t have to go through them alone.

I also was beginning to wonder how much longer he would be able to withstand the onslaughts. How many more attacks before he died? He was weakening very quickly and I didn’t think it would take many more. Worse I was no nearer to finding out where they were coming from.

All manner of beings could theoretically be responsible, another demon for a start, or a spirit, even a human with supernatural powers. But it didn’t make any sense, there were far easier ways to kill Doyle without going to the effort of a psychic assault. And also what would be the point? Apart from the crimes against fashion that Cordelia accused him of, the worst he ever did was have a few drinks too many and build up some unwise debts. Anyone who objected to his seer gift must know that if he could not carry out his role for any reason another would immediately replace him.

I realised the first thing I had to do was establish the source of the attack, only then could I fight it. I made up my mind what we had to do next and having come to a decision I began to relax. I hadn’t intended to, but at ease with Doyle’s slow breaths and earthy demon scent I eventually slept.

I woke mid-morning, sensing the sun bright outside. Doyle was sitting on the edge of his bed sleepily running fingers through his hair and watching me with his solemn eyes.

“Angel,” he said. “Have you been here all night?”

When I shrugged in reply Doyle frowned.

“You think I’m really sick then?”

“No, I think you’re under attack from something.”

He absently pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead while gazing speculatively at a bottle of whisky on the table. “Any ideas from what?”

I shook my head. “No. But we need to go to Sunnydale.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Ah. A holiday in the Hellmouth? That ought to do the trick.”

Like Sunnydale High students he often spoke in opposites. I sometimes had to stop and translate. Old guy. 

“There are people there who can help. At least to find out what’s going on.” He nodded and I said. “We should go straight away, as soon as you’re ready.”

But then with a sharp noiseless gasp he was struck again. His head jerked back and he passed into unconscious, I caught him as he fell and lowered him to the floor supporting him with an arm around his shoulders. He was alive but barely so and he was fighting. I called his name but could get no response. I held him for many minutes convinced he would never regain consciousness, convinced he would die in my arms and there would be nothing I could do to help him.

“Doyle, please wake up, please.”

Eventually he won the fight. His eyes opened and he made an attempt to sit up. “I couldn’t see anything, it was just a blur,” he said urgently.

“Take it easy, it’s OK. There isn’t anything to see.” And he closed his eyes, laying back wearily against my shoulder.

“Jesus,” he murmured after a moment. “That was a good one. I think I’ll have a brain haemorrhage to ease the pain a bit.”

He was pale and literally trembling when we left the apartment. He was not really in a condition to travel and it was possibly the scariest road trip of my life, watching the road unwinding endlessly out in front but with my mind on Doyle, stretched out in the back slipping in and out of consciousness. 

The mansion was cold and in darkness when we arrived, the air heavy with the smell of disuse, the furniture sprinkled with dust. Doyle crumpled onto the couch as soon as we arrived and I started lighting candles and finding sheets for the bed.

“You should lie down and rest for a while,” I said when the bed was ready. I helped him to stand and he leaned heavily against me as we walked to the bedroom, all of his energy used up. I sat him on the bed and quickly undressed him leaving him in his underwear and the long sleeved grey Tshirt that he wore under his shirt. He stopped me with his hand on mine as I laid him down. 

“Angel, I don’t think I’m going to last much longer, I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not. Doyle listen to me, I’m getting help for you.” The urgency and panic was in my voice not his. I didn’t know why I wasn’t keeping my cool. He shook his head.

“That last attack was the killer. I can feel it.” He was looking at me now with still startling eyes. It was as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he could. Finally he said quietly. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t. Just take it easy. You’re going to be fine.” I covered him with a sheet and then, taking the phone from my pocket, I quickly took off my coat and shoes and, only briefly wondering that I should do such a thing, got into the bed with him. I drew him into my arms and he looked questioningly at me. But then he allowed his eyes to sink shut and he rested his head against my shoulder. I wasn’t really used to the intimacy but I let my hand wander through his hair in a way I hoped would be soothing and eventually he did seem to relax.

I flipped open my phone and dialled Giles’ number. There was no answer so I tried Buffy and Willow’s. There was no answer there either but I left a message for them to urgently come to the mansion and for Willow to bring some of her magical equipment. It was only then that I realised I would be seeing Buffy again.

I held Doyle again and I listened as his breathing slowed into sleep and suddenly remembered the day I became human and I had held Buffy in just this way. I hadn’t believed I could feel as close to anyone as I felt to her at that moment and I had marvelled at it. I had thought of the long years of loneliness, watching the lives of others pass in what seemed like the time span of a sparkling, flashing and fading firework. For countless years I had felt myself so far removed from humanity nothing could ever come close to me. But Buffy had covered the distance without effort.

And here. Now. Doyle. So close to me I could almost believe his steady heartbeat was my own and the warmth from his body came from my body. That he was transforming me into a human again.

Then that memory of Buffy melted away and I suddenly recalled the moment on the same day when I had come back to the office after first being changed back. Doyle had looked into my eyes in that unsettling way he had, seeming to see in them my fragile soul still intact, and had whispered ‘he’s alive’. It was only when he had taken my hand in his to feel my new born pulse that I had truly believed in what was happening.

Since then I had lost Buffy, I had lost my life, I had even lost that day. Was I now also to lose Doyle? The person who, I began to understand, was starting to occupy the deserted places.

A long hour passed and I must have drifted into a light sleep because I didn’t hear Buffy and Willow come in. When I opened my eyes, finally aware of their presence, I saw them standing side by side, their arms folded, their heads tilted slightly and eyebrows raised in expressions of surprise. One face, Willow’s, seemed to be amused at something, the other face, Buffy’s, was not at all amused.

“Hey, Angel,” Willow said brightly. 

I eased Doyle out of my embrace, making him comfortable on the pillow, disturbing his sleep only a little. Then I went out into the living room with the girls.

I explained as much as I could about the situation and that I needed two things from Willow. Firstly a protection spell to lessen the effects of the attacks and secondly, and I knew this would be more difficult, I wanted to perform an invocation to force whatever was doing this to reveal itself.

“I can do the protection spell straight away,” she said opening her bag and spreading ingredients and equipment across the table. “That’s easy. I can do the other one too. Giles is out of town but I’ll need one of his books and a heap of ingredients.”

She went to work on the protection spell leaving Buffy and me staring at each other. “What’s going on Angel?” she asked, her eyes hardening.

“What do you mean?” I didn’t understand what had upset her, though something evidently had.

She didn’t reply just looked at me critically and then, as if abandoning the sentence on the tip of her tongue, she shook her head and walked away saying. “Nothing’s wrong with me, what could be wrong with me?” Talking in opposites.

It wasn’t the time to deal with this, whatever it was, and I went back to check on Doyle. His breathing had become laboured and his skin had taken on a damp pallor, a sign death was near. I sat beside him and laid my hand over his, which helped him not at all, and me a little.

Soon Buffy and Willow came into the bedroom and Willow took my place next to Doyle. She began speaking some familiar words of power and blessing as she brushed a soothing hand across Doyle’s forehead. He shifted slightly but did not wake. She had prepared a small wooden carved charm on a piece of leather string which she tied around his neck. Then she took his hand and began the spell. She sought protection for him from the heavens, from the earth, from plants, from the air, from the past and from the future and from every direction. She spoke the words with such quiet assurance, all the while gently stroking his hair, that for the first time I allowed myself to believe Doyle might be saved. 

Finally she placed the charm so that it lay over Doyle’s heart. She leant to kiss Doyle’s cheek, then turned to Buffy and me and said in her cheerful way, “That oughta do it. But he’ll sleep for a while yet.”

We watched Doyle and we saw his body relax and heard his breathing ease almost immediately. Buffy put her arm around Willow,

“You work some wicked Wicca Will,” she said proudly.

Buffy left immediately to collect the things Willow needed for the invocation ritual and when she returned we both worked under her instructions to prepare the spell. It was intricate work marshalling all the symbols, magical oils, candles and incense necessary. It was also frustratingly slow going, as Willow had to say blessings and consecrations at each stage.

We were chalking the magical circle and all its words and signs on to the floor in front of the fireplace when we noticed Doyle had come out of the bedroom. He had put on his jeans and shoes and was watching us, his arms folded across his chest.

“Did I dream it or were you all praying over me?” he asked.

“It was Willow,” Buffy said. “She does Black Arts with a hint of auburn.”

“It’s a charm for protection,” Willow said. “It’s only temporary, but it ought to hold for a while.” She sat back on her heels to assess her work. “How do you feel?”

“Well, only about twenty thousand times better,” Doyle replied.

“That’s because I added my own head-healing spell. Like added aspirin,” she was obviously delighted.

“Well you get my vote for Witch of the Year and a lifetime supply of broomsticks. Thank you.”

Willow and Doyle. Nice person to nice person communication.

I found myself smiling as well. Doyle was still pale and obviously in pain but he was up and talking and the light had come back into his eyes. He caught my smile and returned it.

“Hey you guys, back to work,” Buffy said quickly but without looking at any of us.

It seemed a long time later when Willow finally looked up from her meditation and said, “I’m ready.” 

She lit a candle under the oils in the centre of the circle and placed us around it; Doyle next to her, then me, then Buffy. She asked us to link hands and suddenly I could feel the power coming up from the four of us. From Buffy, with all her mixtures of strength and vulnerability, from Willow and Doyle, with their channels to the unknown and their heroes’ hearts and from me, because fear has its own power. Willow flung incense into the fireplace and began speaking.

“The incantation commands whatever force is attacking Doyle to reveal itself,” she said. “How successful it will be depends on how strong its power is. It may appear, it may speak, or it might speak through me. I hate that one.”

“Go for it,” Buffy said. “Magic up something for me to kill.” 

Lit by only a few candles and scented with burning offerings the room was already suffused with magic when Willow began to cast her spell. It was a long incantation spoken with the murmured lyricism of a prayer and it took me unexpectedly back to my childhood when the nuns in incense filled chapels would whisper their rosaries for hours on end seeking intercession, protection and revelation. 

But this was not a church and this was no prayer. After some time passed, I couldn’t say how long, Willow’s head jerked back and her eyes opened. I could see immediately she had passed into a trance and that there was something other than her behind her eyes. The force of the magic in the circle held strong but I could sense whatever was possessing Willow was immensely powerful.

She began to silently move her lips, seeming to receive a message only she could hear. Then with a gasp she came out of the trance and shouted.

“No, don’t!”

At that moment Doyle pitched forward. His heartbeat, which I had spent the day focussing on, suddenly stopped and he was lying dead in front of me. I pulled him out of the circle and I heard a voice, which must have been mine, shout, “Willow, help him.”

Willow came forward, suddenly utterly transformed in her appearance as if she were lit and made electric by her magic. She pressed her hand to Doyle’s forehead as his body lay in my arms and began speaking a spell in an ancient Semitic language, her voice more command than supplication. When she finished speaking all was silent for a moment and then Doyle’s heart resumed beating, his blood pulsing through his veins, his lungs gasped in air and his eyes opened. He blinked up at me in confusion and said, “Angel?” Willow fell back against Buffy exhausted. She had brought him back from the dead.

I held Doyle against me, needing reassurance from the sound of his heart and the warmth of his breath that he continued to live. In a sudden gesture of surrender he buried his head in my shoulder. We clung to each other until I was convinced he was going to stay alive for at least a little while longer and I could let him go. He sat back against the wall and closed his eyes. He seemed fragile and unprotected there and it was all I could do not to take him back into my arms. But I knew I still had work to do. 

Willow was looking at her hand in amazement. “Wow. Who knew that one would work?” she said.

She finished the spell off with commands and blessings and by obliterating the circle. Then she nervously pushed her hair back behind her ear and said. “I found out what you wanted to know and I guess this isn’t over.” She looked at her fingernails, suddenly uncomfortable with what she had to say. “The attacks are coming from the Powers That Be, they’re trying to kill Doyle.”

“The PTB. What’d I ever do to them?” Doyle complained.

“Well they weren’t too happy about being questioned I can tell you. That’s why they just killed you, they don’t think they have to explain themselves.” She paused. “But they did, I made them. I was like, ‘I command you…’ and they were like ‘no way…’ and I...”

“Will…focus babe...” Buffy said encouragingly.

“Right, right,” Willow again became deeply uncomfortable. She looked at me. “You remember Angel when you and Buffy… when you and Buffy…”

“Had the sex?” Buffy prompted.

“Yes exactly. And Angel went all evil. The Powers say that couldn’t be prevented, no one knew it was going to happen. They say they must do everything in their power to ensure it won’t happen again. To ensure a warrior for the cause isn’t sacrificed to evil again.”

I was confused now. “Buffy and I don’t even see each other, how could it happen again?”

Willow looked at me, her expression softening. “They say you are in love with Doyle and Doyle is in love with you and they think that’s how it will happen again. Not just because of...of ’it’... but because there is the potential for true happiness.”

The ensuing silence was broken only by a low, horrified groan from Doyle and by Buffy murmuring cattily, “oh yeah, big surprise.”

I looked at Willow in disbelief but she pressed on. “A warrior with your strength is irreplaceable but a messenger is expendable. They are killing Doyle as the only way to prevent the cataclysm. They’re doing it this way because if they tried any other you might be able to protect him or get killed in trying.”

“But I’m not…we’re not…” then I shut up and a few things settled in place in my Neanderthal brain. I looked over at Doyle and he lowered his hands from where they had been shielding his eyes from the shadowy light. “Are we?” His eyes darted over to meet Buffy’s implacable green gaze.

”Can we maybe talk about this later?” He said miserably.

But he was slipping away again and I wasn’t sure there was going to be a later. I reflected briefly on what I had learned. Apart from anything else, I found I wasn’t surprised this was my fault, that I had brought this threat to Doyle. I should have guessed. But at least now I knew what to do.

“I’m going to see the Oracles,” I said. “I need to communicate with the Powers.” I put my hand on Doyle’s shoulder. “Do I get to the Oracles in the same way as in LA?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “Get me a couple of stamps whilst you’re there, will you.”

“Just hold on for me for a little while, Doyle. It’s going to be fine.” 

I gained access to the Oracles from memory of the ritual I had seen Doyle perform once before and when I faced them I lost another watch through again forgetting to bring a tribute.

“Why have you come here again?” the golden creatures demanded. “Come here when the intentions of the Powers have been made plain to you.”

“Because I want to make something plain to them.” I was calm now because I knew my enemy and how to defeat it. “I want them to know that if one hair of Doyle’s head is harmed by them they will most certainly lose me as a warrior. I will stand outside to greet the very next sunrise and it will be the end for me.” 

Whether I would have actually done this I don’t know, but as I spoke the words I truly meant them. There seemed to be a moment of hesitation on the part of the Oracles before one of them spoke.

“The Powers see you speak from your heart. They concede and you win the messenger’s life. They beg you to know that the messenger’s love for you is strong. As strong as your love for him. They beg you to remember the risk you put yourself in.”

As if I could ever forget.

With that I was flung back through the gateway, landing on the floor in a cold corridor. I didn’t move, seeking a moment of stillness to adjust to what had happened. I had saved Doyle and the immediate danger had passed. Now I had to go back and face him and Buffy. This was an infinitely terrifying thought.

I closed my eyes and remembered the times I had shared cool star-filled nights in Sunnydale cemeteries with Buffy, when the white blonde of her strawberry scented hair had mingled with mine, when all I ever wanted to hear was the bright, sweetness of her voice in my ear. 

These times were immeasurably precious to me, they were times that could never return and I had arranged my life so it couldn’t happen again. I had arranged my life so I would be alone when night fell and I watched Los Angeles glimmer in the darkness, arranged it so that there would be no one to close the blinds when I walked into a sunlit room, arranged it so there would be no one seeking safety and comfort in my arms. But I hadn’t arranged it particularly well. I realised, belatedly that, as easily as a leaf falling from a tree, scarcely noticing it was happening, I had fallen in love with Doyle. The realisation sent such a wave of peace through me I almost gave up my soul there and then.

But there it must end, it must never be recognised, must never be admitted because if it was I would have to go away again. I didn’t want to go away.

When I reached the mansion a tranquil scene greeted me. Doyle was restored to his old self, all traces of the pain that had almost destroyed him gone. He looked up and his eyes burned into me but he didn’t speak. He was playing cards with Willow while Buffy watched, her head resting on her arms. When she saw me she slipped out of her seat and came over to me, she took my hand.

“Is everything OK now Angel?” She asked with a soft smile. 

“Yeah, it is.”

“Doyle’s teaching Willow how to cheat at poker. Which I think is a fair exchange for doing that Lazarus thing.” She looked down at my hand, enclosed in hers. “I’m sorry I’ve been a brat.” When I tried to speak she stopped me. “We both know you left Sunnydale because you loved me. It was just kind of a shock to see you with someone else. But it isn’t fair of me to expect you to stay always alone.” 

“Buffy…”

“I’m still jealous as hell,” she said, rambling on good-naturedly. “I mean he’s not as cute as me. Obviously. But he's got that half-demon, half-abandoned-puppy vibe going for him and an excellent shirt. But, you know, I can’t help but like him. And I like you and him and…” here she faltered “…you know he’s a guy, right?”

“Buffy.” I touched the silk of her hair for a last time. “I’m still cursed, there can’t be anything more than friendship between Doyle and me.”

“Oh no,” she said. “There’s far more than friendship between you.”

Buffy and Willow left soon afterwards leaving Doyle and me alone. I asked him how he was.

“I could use a drink but otherwise fine.” He wandered off to look for his shirt and I watched him dress, it was an excellent shirt, pink, green, indescribable. I suddenly wanted to run my tongue along the skin of his throat until I found the life beneath the surface. Doyle looked at me curiously. “What happened with the Oracles?” he asked. I shook my head. “Angel?”

“I told them I’d die rather than…”

He stared. “They would know if you were lying.”

“I wasn’t lying, Doyle. I’m not going to have any more deaths on my hands. Especially not yours.” I stood stupidly in the middle of the room looking at my presently death-free hands. “Especially not yours.” I looked at the charm still hanging around his neck. It reminded me of the damage that could be visited on anyone who got close to me.

“This wasn’t your fault Angel,” he said, unravelling me with his beautiful gaze. “I should have…I should have been more careful with you.” 

But he wouldn’t have been able to stop me falling in love with him; that was one thing not in his power. 

I had easily given up two chances at having daytimes recently and at least now I knew why. I would rather look at one of his shirts than at twenty sunsets. I must have said this out loud because he smiled and echoed the words he had said just before I crushed the ring of Amarra. “It’s spectacular, I know. But I do promise there will be another one exactly like it tomorrow.”

He carelessly offered me a promise of tomorrows. The potential for true happiness. Again. What were the chances of that? I closed my eyes.

“Doyle, what are we going to do?” When I opened them he was facing me. It seemed as though it was going to be one of those moments when everything that we knew fell apart and pieced itself together in a different arrangement. But then it wasn’t.

“Do?” said Doyle. “There’s nothing to do.” He took a step toward me and took my hand as Buffy had just done. He continued in a low and even voice. “There’s obviously been a mistake, a misunderstanding. There was this one time I was talking to Cordelia and I said that I was attracted to you but it was just a joke.” Doyle spoke with longing in his voice but in opposites so an old guy would understand.

He took a step closer to me, suddenly the scents of sex mingled with all his others set me alight. He touched my face with his free hand. “That must have shook up the PTB but it was just kidding around. We all know that in our little ensemble piece its Cordelia who’s my love interest and Buffy who’s yours.” 

He cupped his hand around my head bringing it closer to his and kissed me. At first a tentative brush against my lips, then a slow exploration, it became harder and faster. I pulled him against me and kissed him back, until I tasted his blood, as he devoured me with his lips and tongue and teeth. It seemed to go on for hours but then the kiss ended as it had started tenderly, gently then not there at all. I held him tightly, his head pressed to my chest, my hands through his hair and he held me. I couldn’t bring myself to let go, because I knew that once I did, it would be the end of our love affair. That it was impossibly dangerous to touch again, even to speak of it. 

“So there isn’t anything more to be said or done,” he said pulling away from me, his skin flushed his breaths rapid. His demon eyes locked on mine and I finally understood the strange expressiveness in them. But the only thing I couldn’t believe in was the promise of tomorrows.

End

January 2001


End file.
